First Impressions
by Leraiv Snape
Summary: A series of character reactions to John's integration into Sherlock's world, set during 'A Study in Pink'. First Impressions is the first of four stories exploring the unequalled relationship between an ex-army doctor and a sociopathic detective. Slash will enter later stories, this one can be read with whatever glasses you prefer.
1. John

Disclaimer: Not mine, all respects paid to the BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and Sir Doyle.

A/N: This fic takes place during the first episode of the BBC's _Sherlock_ , 'A Study in Pink', featuring scenes I know we've all seen many a time. I have come late to the series, but have enjoyed both it and writing this immensely. It's a series of various character reactions to meeting John and Sherlock for the first time, including their reaction to each other. This story is the first in a series of four, and so can be read as either friendship or pre-slash, as romance is where the series is ultimately headed. This fic is complete in six chapters, and is already finished. I will be updating once a week. Please enjoy!

First Impressions

John

Irritating. Intriguing.

The laboratory at Bart's was a study in organized mess – and the architect of said chaos was standing at a microscope when they walked in. A quick glance around at the equipment and various solutions cluttering the counter told John all he cared to know before his gaze shifted to the man who was focused entirely on the slide under his microscope. John studied his profile with an attention to detail that he did not grant machinery or chemicals. He was a doctor and a soldier. Things interested him far less than people.

And the tall man (Chemist? Lab tech?) with a mop of dark curls promised to be an intriguing person. It was there, in the taut set of his shoulders, like a bird ready to take flight, a man of action, momentarily halted to study (perhaps adjust) his course.

His voice, deep and modulated for impatience, cut across their small talk. "Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine."

"What's wrong with the land line?"

"I prefer to text."

"Sorry," Mike said, though he didn't much sound it, "it's in my coat."

John made a swift decision. He might as well open with courtesies and catch his attention, see what he could read from the other man Mike had brought him there to meet. "Er…here, use mine."

Eyes of cool grey-blue-crystal snapped to him and really looked, not the ghosting-over he'd been given a moment ago as a prop, an irrelevant set piece coming in behind Mike. The other man's sudden intensity made the doctor feel as if he'd abruptly been placed under an x-ray.

John stared back, phone in hand, partially extended, frankly admiring the man in front of him. The planes of this man's angular face were truly remarkable, a striking study in cheekbones and high ridges, executed by a master.

The doctor was heterosexual, had always had (and preferred) women in his bed, but he was, first and foremost, an admirer of the human form. And this one possessed an astonishing beauty, for all its maleness.

"Oh…thank you." The appreciation sounded so genuine, as if the offer of something so small were truly unexpected. Those startling eyes never left John's face as the taller man approached, apparently ignoring Mike's introduction, took the phone and started to text, then offhandedly asked:

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John could not credit his ears. How on earth…? "Sorry?"

"Which is it? Afghanistan or Iraq?"

He asked this question as if it were nothing out of the ordinary. As if John's military service were tattooed on his forehead for all to see.

Intriguing, yes. But also unsettling.

"Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you know?"

An (Assistant?) walked in with a cup that wafted coffee aroma under his nose, reminding him that he'd skipped lunch that day. "Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you." The tall man did a double take, glancing over her face. "What happened to the lipstick?"

The young woman swallowed, and if John was baffled by the man before him, he had no difficulty interpreting the naked emotion stamped on her face. He knew a moment of pity – it is simply unfair to have so much exposed all at once. "It wasn't working for me."

"Really? I thought it was a big improvement," the (Doctor? Biologist?) said mildly. He walked away from them, swallowing his coffee, apparently completely unaware of the reaction his words were wreaking in their wake. "Your mouth's too small now."

The raw confusion on her features moved John, and he slanted a frown at the man now bent over his microscope again as she said "Okay," in a small, breathless, voice, and departed.

"How do you feel about the violin?"

This question seemed to be directed at the doctor, but he was baffled as to the sudden left-turn. The conversation had begun to make him feel as if he was on a roller coaster – constantly being jerked in unexpected directions – but without the adrenaline rush.

He watched the door close on Molly, catching Mike's eye as he turned back. His old friend was clearly expecting him to respond. "Sorry, what?"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end…would that bother you?" The changeable eyes were on him again. "Potential flat mates should know the worst about each other."

 _Potential flat mates…ah…Mike must have phoned ahead_. John let out a sigh of relief. So the man was a bit abrupt, definitely socially awkward, but in John's experience, scientists could be like that.

"Oh, you – you told him about me."

Mike shook his head, smiling, shattering the doctor's equilibrium immediately. "Not a word."

"Then who said anything about flat mates?" he asked the slender back. The other man was busy putting on his coat.

"I did. I told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flat mate for. Now here he is, just after lunch, with an old friend clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't a difficult leap."

John could only stare, unsettled becoming slightly spooked, his brief consideration of the man's arresting physical appearance submerged by reluctant admiration for the mind that must be under that thick, dark hair. And vexation that this man seemed to live about six sentences ahead in the conversation.

"How did you know about Afghanistan?"

"Got my eye on a nice little place in central London," the man continued, ignoring the question as he looped his scarf around his neck. "Together, we ought to be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock. Sorry, got to dash, I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."

John couldn't help but feel railroaded – and slightly like a pet that had been selected from the store, with no say in whether he was going or not. It was an unusual feeling for the former Captain – not to be taking orders, but to be taking personal ones from a civilian.

So his voice was slightly sharp when he said, "Is that it?" Arrested in his exit, the man turned from the door.

"Is that what?"

"We've only just met, and we're going to look at a flat?"

"Problem?" A small smile, almost a daring one.

John shot Mike an incredulous smile, schooled his face to serious to turn back to the eccentric man. "We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your name."

The man stepped back as if to say _Right._ He gave John a brief once-over and began:

"I know you're an army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him, possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife, and I know that your therapist thinks that your limp is psychosomatic – quite correctly, I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" A small smile as he sidled back towards the door, clearly pleased with himself. He opened it, turned to John almost as an afterthought and said:

"The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is two-two-one B Baker street." He flashed an outrageous wink, bid afternoon to Mike and walked out.

John stared at his old friend. How could Mike expect that he would get on with someone like that? His initial flash of curiosity had been completely buried by irritation for the man's high-handedness. And raw discomfort at how quickly Sherlock had divined his life. He shifted his cane uncomfortably. His therapist _had_ been insisting that his limp was psychosomatic since his return…

And yet… _Riding crop. Mortuary._ Life with Sherlock Holmes was bound to be anything but boring.

"Yeah. He's always like that," Mike confirmed to John's steady glance.

" _Nothing happens to me."_ If this first meeting was anything to go by, John would not be making that complaint to Ella again any time soon. Despite his reservations, he could _feel_ his heart speed up hopefully at the thought.

So maybe the intrigue wasn't _completely_ buried.

He knew, with the same surety that had allowed him to choose course after course of action in Afghanistan without looking back, that he would go see the flat at 221B Baker Street tomorrow evening.

And unless there was something seriously wrong with either the flat or Sherlock Holmes, he would be taking it.

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	2. Mrs Hudson

Disclaimer: Not mine, all respects paid to the BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and Sir Doyle.

A/N: The second chapter, featuring our favorite landlady and her wonderful assumptions.

Mrs. Hudson

Right.

"Will you be back round with him again later, then?" Mrs. Hudson asked, hovering in the doorway as Sherlock flitted about, boxes piled everywhere and already spilling their strange contents onto the carpet. The kitchen table had surrendered its clean wooden surface to a cluster of glass, and the faint smell of smoke betrayed an experiment in progress, despite the fact that the consulting detective had only been in residence for approximately a quarter of an hour.

As she watched him dart around, she couldn't contain her faint smile. She owed the dear boy – for solving that disaster of a case and releasing her from her even more disastrous marriage – and she did so want him to have the chance to experience happiness of a more normal variety. Neither Sherlock nor Mycroft had ever given even a scant indication that there were women in their lives, so she had moved on to the next available assumption.

He would have to be quite remarkable to have attracted Sherlock. Then again, he would have to be quite remarkable to _put up_ with Sherlock. She hoped she would be meeting him today. Especially if Sherlock was planning to move him in this evening.

"Sherlock, dear?"

"Hmmm?"

"Your new man. Are you going to bring him by later?"

"Mmm – ah, yes," he answered vaguely. "Dr Watson will be by this evening – I have a few items to take care of this afternoon first."

A doctor. That _was_ a good turn-up for Sherlock. She'd kept abreast of some of his adventures, and if he had someone caring to come home to patch him up, that could only be good.

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The man standing back as Sherlock hugged her that evening was shorter than the detective by a full head, compact and slight of stature, and used a cane to support himself through a rather bad limp. She eyed him sympathetically – and curiously. The man seemed to be the steady, quiet, clear-headed sort. Rather…ordinary, by all observable standards. Not the type she'd imagine would put up with Sherlock Holmes' flights of temporary insanity – nor the type she would have imagined capturing the detective's attention.

"Mrs. Hudson, Dr. John Watson," Sherlock introduced them with a slightly proprietary air.

"Hello," he extended his hand, smiling, and she shook it, instantly warming to him and the kind smile on his gentle face. The man practically exuded patience. Perhaps it was as they always said – opposites attract. This man would be a wonderful influence on Sherlock. He _had_ done well for himself.

"Shall we?" Sherlock said behind them, ushering them in. He bounded up the stairs ahead of them, but she caught the eager look on his face as he stopped at the door, waiting for his partner to reach the top of the stairs, and then pushed through it with a smile, for all the world as if the flat were a gift he was showing off.

Mrs. Hudson saw the way Sherlock's eyes never moved from the honest, easy face of Dr. Watson as the shorter man surveyed the flat. _Early in the relationship, then_ , she assessed. Either way, it didn't bother her.

"Well, this could be very nice. Very nice indeed," the physician was announcing his approval around the corner.

"Yes. Yes, I think so. My thought's precisely," Sherlock agreed, contentment on his thin face as he surveyed her second-story flat like a general examining a kingdom for conquering.

"Soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out—"

"So I went straight ahead and moved in."

"Oh…" the men looked at each other, bafflement plain in the air between them, and Mrs. Hudson covered her mouth. There was clearly plenty of navigating to be done here, but something about the two of them, standing in the kitchen door – the doctor's head tilted back to meet Sherlock's dark grey gaze as they silently negotiated their space – looked… _right_.

 _They'll be all right_ , she thought, feeling a surge of fondness for both of them. Her boys. She and Mrs. Turner could compare notes.

The detective was moving quickly, making a half-hearted attempt to tidy up.

"What do you think, then, Dr. Watson? There's another bedroom upstairs, if you'll be needing two bedrooms," she asked, mostly out of courtesy, but you never knew how people conducted their own business.

The man stared at her, startled. She hoped he didn't think she minded. It might not have been done openly in her day, but she certainly wasn't going to hold onto that old nonsense.

"Of course we'll be needing two bedrooms."

 _ **Very**_ _early, then_ , she reinforced her original assessment, and gave him a smile.

"Oh, don't worry; there's all sorts around here. Mrs. Turner next door has married ones," she told him confidentially. Watson shot a puzzled glance across the flat at Sherlock, but he was busy at the bookcase, and the doctor simply shook his head. She would have to privately assure him that she didn't mind at the soonest available opportunity.

Which, given the front page of the _Times_ , might be sooner than she'd hoped.

When the sirens sounded outside, she was unsurprised when a Yard detective thundered up the stairs and into the open flat. As Sherlock asked the Yarder pointed questions, she watched John. There was an air of curious amazement about him as he watched the exchange as he would a tennis match – wishing that he could jump in to play, except that he was lacking a racket and possibly the rules had changed.

No sooner did the door close on the detective inspectors heels than energy surged through Sherlock's lean frame and he grinned as he leapt, fists clenched in excitement. "Brilliant! Yes!" The smile transformed his face, dissolving the arrogant lines drawn around eyes and mouth, making him gloriously charming. Mrs. Hudson watched the doctor's dark blue eyes lock on him. He was immediately, completely, arrested by the open, intense expression on the detective's face, and watched him in fascination as Sherlock jumped about the room, sweeping his coat on.

The calm veneer the detective had worn for Lestrade's sake had fallen away like the mask it was, revealing the delighted, energetic man that was Sherlock's truest self, and the doctor couldn't have looked away if he'd tried. John Watson sat completely captivated. She nodded to herself knowingly. _This_ was what had brought these two together, she'd stake anything on it.

"Ah, four serial suicides and now a note. Ah, it's Christmas." He seized his coat, swinging it around his shoulders.

"Mrs Hudson, I'll be late, might need some food."

"I'm your landlady dear, not your housekeeper," she replied firmly. She did adore Sherlock, but she also already knew that the man required strict limits.

"Something cold will do," he blew right past her objection. "John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up!"

As she set the kettle on to make the doctor a cup of tea, she heard footsteps, then voices, and then John's firm voice saying in the hall, "Sorry Mrs. Hudson, I'll skip the tea. I'm off out."

"What, both of you?" She couldn't quite cloak her dismay. She _had_ been looking forward for the chance to get a few details from him with Sherlock out. Lord knew she could ask Sherlock all day and get nothing. Dr. Watson seemed more the opening-up type.

But as Sherlock threw open the door and both men exited – the excited detective and his firm doctor right behind, she smiled.

 _Just right_. They wouldn't be needing that second bedroom for very long. She'd stake her herbal soothers on it.

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	3. Sherlock

Disclaimer: Not mine, all respects paid to the BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and Sir Doyle.

Sherlock

(Not quite?) Ordinary.

The man following Mike Stamford into the lab at Bart's was nothing special, obviously Mike's solution to his off-hand comment about finding a flat mate this morning. Cane for a psychosomatic limp, blue eyes not-quite-lifeless, but also not-quite-alive (serious personal doubts in the struggle to come to terms with the end of his usefulness in the military), reasonably quiet demeanor, doubtless the chivalrous type when it came to women.

But his service in Afghanistan had lent a steadiness to his gaze that indicated honesty, and a firmness to his bearing that meant he would not be easily annoyed, startled, frightened, or bought.

All of these ordinary qualities were nevertheless a rare mixture in a single individual, and would be quite useful in a flat mate. Sherlock needed one who could withstand the game, even as a peripheral player, as he had no intention of giving it up, or of living with a flat mate who demanded he change.

Yes…Mike Stamford either had powers of observation Sherlock had never credited him with, or he'd gotten extraordinarily lucky. This Dr. John Watson, ex-military surgeon, might be perfect. Even if he was a tad slow at following a logical line of thought. Most people were – the detective had never let it bother him, and refused to allow it to start now.

"The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is two-two-one B Baker street. Afternoon!"

He strode toward the mortuary, sparing a thought for the man he'd just met. Watson hadn't been worried about challenging him – and that had been good. Sherlock was confident he'd be seeing the other man at the flat tomorrow evening. The blue eyes had sparked with that curiosity born of the desire for adventure.

Coming from a man who had probably had enough "adventure" to last the common man three lifetimes, that quality alone bore further scrutiny.

Perhaps Dr. Watson wasn't quite as ordinary as his appearance might lead one to believe.

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Potential.

"Don't wait up!" He blew through the door, letting it slam on his heels, bounding down to meet the cab, mind leaping ahead to the body he could already almost see in his mind's eye, when his brain caught up to him, presenting his previous words for contemplation.

" _I_ _ **need**_ _an assistant."_

And now, he had one at his disposal. More than a decade of military service. In the Middle East, for that matter – shooting and getting shot at while tending to his patients. The game was hardly likely to disturb him. In fact, the expression in his face at Bart's yesterday had indicated the opposite…

Sherlock ducked back through the door to 221B, vibrating with the same tension that had shot him out of it, grey eyes fastened on the man sitting in the chair, the broad face oddly disappointed as he flicked vaguely through the newspaper. "You're a doctor. In fact, you're an army doctor."

The disappointment vanished, life suffusing those eyes as John rose, pulling his cane under him as if the mere mention of his service was sufficient to call him forth to battle. _Magnificent_. The apathy of the average Londoner had vanished instantly. The gaze was bright now, full focused and intent on Sherlock. "Yes."

"Any good?" Sherlock felt his lips quirk upwards, his eyes warming. Watson's humility was stamped on his face for all to see. The detective would get no bravado from him.

There was no hesitation in his response: "Very good."

"Seen a lot of injuries, then. Violent deaths. Bit of trouble too, I bet." No smile now, and he knew his own gaze had turned fierce as he stalked towards the doctor, holding the steady glance that never looked away from his, never even thought about skittering to the side. Adrenaline thrummed in him, a response to the eagerness, the barely-masked hunger, that shone in those navy-blue eyes.

"Of course, yes…enough to last me a lifetime. Far too much." A lie – and Watson knew it. The one that his therapist preferred he tell himself.

Sherlock had no use for therapists, and certainly none for one that would see this man – this unassuming ex-army doctor who still had much within him – sit at home useless. He could hear the mischief back in his eyes and his voice when he asked:

"Wanna see some more?"

The answer flashed in that gaze before his mouth formed the words, the answer Sherlock knew Watson would give. It was a grasp at life, the life that he had recognized they _both_ craved. "Oh _God_ , yes."

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Surprising.

"The police don't consult amateurs."

 _Amateur?_ Sherlock shot Watson an irritated glance, only to be met by the other man's bemused grin.

He could almost hear his brother's voice, that patronizing tone he used when Sherlock had done yet one more thing that displayed his total ignorance and carelessness of human interaction, but wounded pride intercepted the warning, and before he knew it, he was tearing into the doctor next to him.

"When we met for the first time yesterday, I said Afghanistan or Iraq. You looked surprised."

"Yes, how did you know?"

"I didn't know, I _saw_. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. But your conversation as you entered the room said trained at Bart's, so, Army doctor, obvious. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists – you've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair, and you stand like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic, wounded in action then. Wounded in action, suntan, Afghanistan or Iraq."

Sherlock made himself stop, clenching his teeth and locking his jaw. There had flashed an excitement in the doctor's eyes not five minutes prior when he'd invited Watson to join him on the case…and now he was ruining it. People _hated_ when he did this. He usually didn't care, but that flicker had given him a small hope he'd never experienced – that he might actually have a capable assistant, someone who _wanted_ to come…

"You said I had a therapist." Watson's voice was quiet, not sharp, not angry. Not defensive. Merely…curious.

To cover his own surprise, Sherlock bit out: "You've got a psychosomatic limp, of course you've got a therapist." The physician still didn't seem to be put out. If anything he looked…intrigued? The detective continued, almost cautiously.

"Then there's your brother."

"Hm?" The noise was as much invitation to continue as question, and Sherlock obliged. "Your phone. It's expensive, email enabled, MP3 player, but you're looking for a flat share, you wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then. Scratches, not one, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy, you know it already." He flips over the phone to where the inscription is neatly done.

"The engraving."

"Harry Watson. Clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara, who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment, expensive phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently, this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble then, just six months on he's given it away? If she'd left him, he would've kept it, people do – sentiment. No – he wanted to be rid of it, _he_ left _her_. He gave the phone to you, that says he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, yet you're not going to your brother for help? That says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife. Maybe you _don't_ like his drinking."

"How can you _possibly_ know about the drinking?"

Sherlock couldn't help his smile. Incredible. John Watson kept coming back for more.

"Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection, scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge, but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them. There you go, you see, you were right."

" _I_ was right?" The tone was so astonished, Sherlock knew Watson had already forgotten the remark that had prompted his incisive display. "Right about what?"

"The police _don't_ consult amateurs."

He didn't turn to look at the older man, fisting his hands over his knees, instead. Now that he was finished, there would surely be a cry of outrage, the exclamation he'd grown used to as a child, the one that hadn't changed – even when he'd gone to university, where his fifteen-year-old self had been so certain he'd find at least a few minds like his own, even now that he solved crimes that Scotland Yard could never complete without him – _freak_.

"That…was amazing."

For a full four seconds, Sherlock couldn't credit his ears. _Amazing?_ He'd _never_ heard that. Not even from his own parents. It was too inconvenient a talent, too embarrassing when he'd called people out for exactly what they were.

But this surprising doctor, who one might argue had plenty to hide, seemed not to care one whit that he'd been laid bare by a man who was, essentially, a total stranger.

For the first time in his life, Sherlock found himself asking an emotional opinion. "Do you think so?"

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary, it was quite extraordinary." No hint of flattery. This man had seen too much of the world to flatter anyone needlessly. Just genuine, complete admiration.

"That's not what people normally say." Why was he giving the man a chance to revise his opinion? Did he _want_ to be insulted?

"What do they normally say?"

 _Freak. Unnatural. Spy. Busybody. Voyeur. Psychopath._ Sherlock's eyes glittered at Watson's puzzled expression. "Piss off!"

Watson couldn't restrain his grin, the detective felt his own mouth curve in response, and they were both smiling. Warmth threaded through the adrenaline spike that had surged through him in seeing those blue eyes match his hunger for the chase.

Sherlock had never had friends. As a child, none had wanted to befriend the strangely intelligent boy with a too-active imagination and a brain wired to go in all directions at once. As a teen and then an adult, the sting of this rejection had been transmuted into armor. People were too stupid to keep up with him as it was. Friends interfered with the work. Caring was not an advantage. Better to keep to himself, to stay busy with corpses and cases. Evidence never lied and bodies never argued.

But perhaps…perhaps this surprising doctor, with a past as scarred as his own, who craved the rush of the chase as he did, was just the man to be a friend.

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	4. Lestrade

Disclaimer: Not mine, all respects paid to the BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and Sir Doyle.

Lestrade

Needed.

The first time Detective Inspector Lestrade met Doctor John Watson, his eyes barely took in the short figure in an armchair as he and Sherlock exchanged in their customary, rapid-fire conversation that always ensued when the D.I. broke down and invited the consulting detective on a case.

The second time, he met the doctor, (barely twenty minutes after the first time) he took only slightly more notice of him than he had in the flat – aside from the fact that Sherlock had brought the threatened help ( _"I_ _ **need**_ _an assistant." "He's with_ _ **me**_ _.")_ to rub in the copper's face that Lestrade was not in charge of any crime scene when the prodigy was present. Watson seemed competent enough (Sherlock wouldn't allow him on the scene otherwise), Lestrade supposed, but they had a whole damned army of doctors and forensic specialists from the Yard, and he was ill inclined to let _two_ people who were technically civilians in on sensitive information.

At rough glance, he seemed to be a decent man. Haircut, military. Casual straightness of his spine, military. Deference to authority (gratifyingly, this was turned to Lestrade himself as opposed to the eccentric man a nose-breadth from the corpse), military.

The D.I. couldn't imagine a man like this sticking around Sherlock for more than half a day. More was the pity. The consulting detective could use a steadying influence in his life, and the older man seemed to be nothing if not consistent. Watson neither flinched from the body, nor reveled in assessing it. His eyes reflected none of the mad, obsessive passion for the chase that Sherlock vibrated, nor did they reveal disgust for the dead.

But the third time, standing in the midst of the chaos the police "drugs bust" had made of 221B Baker Street, Lestrade's opinion of the quiet doctor solidified into an impressive picture.

All it took was six words.

"That was ages ago! Why would she still be upset?" Lestrade had been listening to Watson's suggestion about the killer's methods of forcing his victims to commit suicide in seriousness, and Sherlock's irritated, insensitive question detonated in the small flat like a bomb, sending ripples of destructive silence through the team.

The room stopped completely dead.

Lestrade saw Watson's faint grimace before the D.I. shifted his gaze to the consulting detective. And almost swallowed his tongue.

For the first time since the copper had met him, Lestrade could see that Sherlock _knew_ that he'd erred. He'd gone still as the room, his slate-grey eyes staring into Watson's, seeking understanding.

Watson reflected it. Lestrade could _hear_ the "Freak!" from Donovan, Anderson and the rest, so loudly unspoken the flat fairly resonated with their condemnation, but that was not the expression stamped on Watson's features.

The D.I. watched Sherlock search the older man's face for a clue, shuffling in a display of awkwardness Lestrade had never before witnessed in the arrogantly confident man. The consulting detective had _never_ paused in one of his rants, never taken a breath between one offensive comment and the next about his brilliance and their incompetence, had never _cared_ to understand the things he said that estranged whole rooms in a single sentence. Human beings were puzzles – to be taken apart and stitched back together (or not), dissected and experimented upon. Lestrade had never before seen Sherlock take anyone's opinions or, even worse, feelings, into account. Not even his brother's. Scratch that. _Especially_ not Mycroft's.

But here was John Watson, and the physician's face wore neither disgust nor weariness, but a strange sort of compassion as the blue eyes fixed on Sherlock's stormy grey in the sudden silence. The room narrowed immediately to the two of them. Lestrade could feel himself being shut out, though he stood not a meter away.

The former military man's expression was almost gentle as Sherlock took a slow step closer to him and said tentatively: "Not good?"

Watson glanced around, saw the alienation in the team's eyes, and took a deep breath before quietly, with the bare bones reply of his army training, responding, "Bit not good, yeah."

Sherlock processed this, and Lestrade was surprised to see a look almost of _apology_ cross that usually-superior countenance, then the consulting detective immediately moved on to the next germane point, advancing on John urgently, standing so close his hands nearly brushed the compact doctor's chest as his long fingers punctuating his words. "Yeah, but, if you were _dying_ , if you've been murdered, in your very last few seconds, what would you say?"

Lestrade watched Watson meet Sherlock's eyes, absorbing the energy of the frenetic detective without stepping back or even leaning away, and barely heard the shorter man's soft reply, "Please God, let me live."

"Use your imagination!" Sherlock seethed impatience. Lestrade held his breath. So far, the doctor was doing remarkably well, and the D.I.'s opinion of him was climbing by the second. But this…Watson's answer hadn't been lack of imagination—

"I don't have to," the ex-captain said, and his voice never rose, his dark blue eyes never wavered from the fierce gaze of the man in front of him, though they were standing so close they were breathing each other's exhales.

Lestrade didn't dare move for fear of breaking their tableau. For the second time in under a minute, he saw the words _I'm sorry_ flash through those fog-grey eyes, watched Sherlock shuffle his feet faintly, and was suddenly reminded of a very bright child who means well, but keeps making fundamental mistakes.

He watched as Sherlock tore down his next line of thinking, furious pacing resumed as his long legs matched his brain's output, then the copper turned his attention to Watson. The doctor stood at ease, mind also at work as his gaze unwaveringly tracked Sherlock's stalk across the carpet.

There was a steadiness in that glance, in his presence, that calmed even Lestrade. It clearly soothed the wild animal in the consulting detective. It was a solidity that asked _what can I do to help?_ accompanied by a casual assurance of whatever immediate action was required – whether it was jog to fetch milk or confronting a madman with the unregistered Browning Lestrade already knew the man possessed.

As Lestrade struggled into his coat, he glanced at Watson, exasperated. "Why did he do that? Why'd he have to leave?"

Watson shrugged, turning away from the window where he'd watched Sherlock inexplicably drive off in a cab. "You know him better than I do."

Lestrade studied him. "I've known him for five years." He thought about the way the doctor stood, and absorbed, and responded to Sherlock as if he'd always been doing it, as if he'd been born to understand this man no one else had ever cared to. The D.I. genuinely like the consulting detective, but he was under no illusions that Sherlock cared for his thoughts on any matter. If he spent the rest of his life studying Sherlock, he wouldn't have the mastery John Watson had gained in under twenty-four hours. "And no, I don't."

"So why do you put up with him?" Watson asked, and those clear blue eyes had no guile in them – only curiosity.

"Because Sherlock Holmes is a great man," Lestrade replied tiredly. "And I think that one day, if we're very, very lucky, he might even be a good one."

Descending the stairs, Lestrade replayed that quiet _"Not good?"_ and recalled the intensity in Sherlock's face at the crime scene earlier _"I said he's with_ _ **me**_ _."_ As if it brooked no argument. As if Dr. John Watson, formerly of the RAMC, was an indisputable fact at Sherlock's back, and the D.I. had just better get used to it.

They _had_ gotten lucky. In some undefinable way, Sherlock had allowed himself to attach to the man. Not as an experiment or a curiosity, but as a human being. This unassuming solider-physician-turned-criminal-investigator could guide Sherlock from being merely a great man into being a good one.

There would be no more protests when Dr. Watson joined Sherlock Holmes at a crime scene.

In fact, Lestrade might bloody well start requiring it.

888

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	5. Mycroft

Disclaimer: Not mine, all respects paid to the BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and Sir Doyle.

Mycroft

Unanticipated.

His long black car pulled up at the scene as the gun was fired, before even the Yard arrived.

"Shall we secure the building, sir?" Agent Thornton was sitting, Sig Sauer at the ready in his seemingly-casual hold.

"No…thank you, Thornton. But I believe we're going to wait this one out. Unless I am much mistaken, the danger has already passed. For now."

Panda cars roared in a few minutes later, and, seconds after them, an ambulance, lights ablaze. A figure sauntered out of the building already being tapped off –the tall, lithe silhouette of his brother. From the other direction, liberally skirting the shadows and almost hidden by the flashing lights, came the short, sturdy doctor Mycroft had so unceremoniously kidnapped earlier.

At the point Sherlock was irritably waved off by Detective Inspector Lestrade and ducked from under the police tape to speak to Dr. Watson, Mycroft rolled down the window. Anthea glanced at him, noticed that his hand was not on the door handle, and returned her gaze to her ever-present Blackberry.

Mycroft could not hear the words, but his brother was facing him, staring down at the smaller man. Sherlock's expression was unusually…concerned. In the dark at this distance, the elder Holmes' lip-reading ability was compromised, but he could still read Sherlock's body language, and the emotional tapestry was impressive. Gentleness. Compassion. Gratitude.

Three emotions he had never associated with his brother in his adult life. Who _was_ this doctor?

" _Could it be that you have decided to trust Sherlock Holmes, of all people?"_

It seemed he had. And, staggeringly, it seemed his brother was equally effected.

They were coming around the blockade of tape and flashing lights and ambulances now, and Sherlock had said something to make Watson laugh, and then the ex-Army captain looked horrified at himself (probably for something mundane, like laughing at a crime scene), which made both of them grin at each other again.

Mycroft hadn't seen so unguarded an expression on his brother's face since they were children. There was clearly more to this frankly pedestrian doctor than met the eye.

Against the sirens and the background noise, their conversation wasn't thrown into relief until they'd passed the cars, and he heard Watson say:

"You were going to take that damn pill, weren't you?" The levity was gone. Mycroft debated approaching, but decided to stay seated. It seemed they hadn't noticed him or the car yet.

"Course I wasn't. Biding my time. Knew you'd turn up," Sherlock replied casually. A lie, if Mycroft had ever heard one.

And Watson knew it. "No you didn't," he said clearly, a _don't bullshit me_ look plain on his face. "That's how you get your kicks, isn't it? You risk your life to prove you're clever."

 _One point to the good doctor,_ Mycroft thought, smiling. Yes, Sherlock did. It was why the majority of people thought he was mental. They simply didn't have a frame of reference to understand him. But Dr. John Watson…

" _You're not haunted by the war, Dr. Watson. You miss it. Welcome back."_ And when released from Mycroft's presence, he had returned to his bed-sit, retrieved his illegally-kept army-issue hand gun, and instantly gone on to 221B.

"Why would I do that?" Sherlock asked, and his brother could hear the fishing tone of his voice, just faintly uncertain, wondering if condemnation was to come from this quarter too.

"'Cause you're an idiot," Watson replied baldly. Sherlock looked vaguely surprised by this, but not for long as the men grinned at each other, their smiles those of shared understanding. Watson, too, was an adrenaline addict. The connection required no further explanation.

"Dinner?" Sherlock asked.

"Starving," Watson agreed. It was then that Mycroft decided to open his car door, instantly drawing their high-strung attention. Watson stiffened, his hand casually reaching for the pocket his Browning was no doubt lodged in as he nodded to Mycroft, hissing an identity to Sherlock.

The grey eyes went cold as Sherlock saw his brother, but he approached anyway, Watson in tow, the latter man's hand still loosely wrapped around his weapon.

The usual round of threats and posturing – Watson's rather comedic reaction when he realized that they were, in fact, brothers, and that Mycroft's concern from several hours ago was genuine – and the two were off. Watson tried to introduce himself to Anthea again (why he would bother when he was going to be living in Sherlock Holmes' pocket was beyond Mycroft – they might have established trust, but Watson clearly had _no_ idea how much of his time Sherlock would be demanding) and then followed the consulting detective when Anthea politely made her total lack of interest clear. As they strode across the road the flag a cab, the two of them were laughing again.

Mycroft hadn't seen his brother smile so much in years. "Interesting, that soldier fellow," he said to Anthea. She followed his gaze with little enthusiasm. "He could be the making of my brother." On the other hand, if Watson got tied up in too many of Sherlock's schemes… "Or make him worse than ever. Either way, we'd better upgrade their surveillance status. Grade three. Active."

Sherlock had, unbelievably, made a friend. A damn good one, if this afternoon's interview and what he'd just witnessed were to be believed. Despite Watson's outwardly plebian appearance and demeanor, 221B Baker Street was going to prove an interesting place in the near future.

He would need all the surveillance possible to stay on top of this. If things continued on this unanticipated road, it would not do for his brother and the doctor to surprise him.

888

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	6. Moriarty

Disclaimer: Not mine, all respects paid to the BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and Sir Doyle.

A/N: Welcome to the final chapter of my character studies. I hadn't really thought to include Moriarty, but I found the idea just too intriguing to leave alone. I hope you enjoy!

Moriarty

Distraction.

James Moriarty narrowed his dark eyes at the grainy picture piping into his office from the CCTV cameras.

This would not do. Not do at all.

Moriarty's network of surveillance, long since attuned to all things Sherlock Holmes, had picked up the doctor now striding comfortably next to the detective just yesterday afternoon. He had appeared, at first glance, an absolute nobody. As dull as the rest of London's population in his jumper and jeans. Even the cane, his sole distinguishing feature from the rest of his demographic, hadn't been of interest – he was obviously military and just as obviously wounded in action. That he had entered St. Bart's with an old friend had only come to the consulting criminal's attention when, not twenty minutes later, his obsession had dashed out of it.

Not having cameras inside the hospital was proving an inexcusable lapse. He was going to have to find a way to remedy that failure. He couldn't access those in 221B Baker Street yet, either. Mycroft Holmes was a paranoid bastard, and the intensity of his unappreciated security around his younger brother was matched only by the protocols of MI5. As soon as Sherlock had so much entertained the thought of living there, the place had been swept, bugged and locked down.

But Bart's could be penetrated, and had to be. Immediately. Because something had _happened_ in those sixteen minutes twenty-three seconds that the doctor and Sherlock had occupied the same building. Long months of research guaranteed Moriarty that the short man was no one known to the detective, and yet, his informant on Baker Street (the unassuming newspaper seller who was very pleased to be receiving a handsome monthly influx to his rather barren bank account for a job as simple as keeping track of when the detective was coming and going) had sent word earlier today, adamant that boxes had been shuttling in all day from two directions. The two men were flat sharing.

Flat sharing. Sherlock Holmes? Mr. High-Functioning Sociopath, 'I-need-my-space-don't-even-think-about-touching-anything'?

Moriarty _hated_ new variables to an equation. He was the only one allowed to upset the proverbial apple cart. He got quite…cross…when an unplanned interruption occurred.

He had been so looking forward to watching Sherlock beat his cabbie. That the self-styled consulting detective would be the victor had never been in any doubt. The cabbie had been an interesting distraction, a good way (a clever way, and Sherlock did _so_ value cleverness) to bring himself to the consulting detective's attention, but the poor old man was never going to actually succeed in killing Sherlock. _That_ assignment had been a suicide mission. Not that Moriarty had bothered to let his lackey in on that little detail.

Then this common little _doctor_ had intervened and ruined everything with a crack shot, supposedly saving Sherlock's life and indebting him to the wretched man.

The two were striding away from the scene now – one of the British Government's many cameras was situated on the building opposite, and Moriarty's piggy-back signal was feeding him the view of them striding towards him, all flaring coats and good humor – every inch the good guys saving the day.

He had to confess, if only to himself, that he strongly resented the evidence of his eyes. The short doctor's face was creased in an wide smile (predictable, open-book, _boring_ ), but the surprise was the equally pleased expression on Sherlock's. The detective's striking features had re-arranged from the customary intensity that had captured Moriarty's attention in the first place to a genuinely relaxed expression.

The criminal's fingers tightened around the mouse until they were shaking slightly, his fingertips turning white.

This plain man, this un-extraordinary creature, had entered Sherlock's life at exactly the same time that Moriarty had decided to introduce himself, to carefully set in motion all the pieces he'd been assembling to reel in the detective's interest. To engage him in a game of chess, of tag, of endless chases and sleepless nights and exclamations of _brilliant!_ as they chased one another, the criminal always one step ahead, just far enough to stay in the field, but close enough that Sherlock had his hand perpetually extended to snatch him by the collar—

Now hovering on the brink of ruin. The doctor would encourage Sherlock to be content with a plebian life, solving dull crimes for the dull local branch of the Yard, eating dull take away and watching dull crap telly afterwards.

No game across continents, dashing through foreign cities, thieves, assassins, warmongers and frauds arranged and toppled at whim.

Unbearable.

Moriarty _would not_ allow the sudden caprices of chance to interfere with his game. Fate had nothing on James Moriarty when it came to organizing lives. The doctor would have to be removed.

"John Watson," Sebastian Moran rumbled from behind him. For a big man, he moved quietly, though Moriarty had sensed his arrival a few minutes ago. "Former military doctor. Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers."

 _John Watson_. Even his _name_ was bland.

"Shouldn't pose a problem for you, should it, Seb?" Moriarty didn't turn in his seat, watching instead as his Sherlock laughed at something the unremarkable John said. "Being as you're former military, too."

"You know you have but to say the word," Moran's bass replied steadily.

Moriarty almost nodded, which would have been taken as an order and meant John's imminent execution, but another thought occurred, and a wicked smile bloomed across his face. He spun in his chair to face his loyal second.

"Better for Sherlock to have his distraction eliminated legitimately. There is no need to involve or implicate you, my friend," he announced with a wave of his hand. Yes. This _was_ better. Eliminate John Watson in such a way that Sherlock would never again consider allowing anyone close enough to be called friend. Never again would Moriarty have to deal with another contender for the detective's attention.

"After all, how will our wonderful detective react when this John Watson dies at the hands of criminals he's investigating?" His lips stretched broader, which did nothing to melt the ice in his eyes.

"Contact Shan, will you? I believe another series of art shipments are due from China."

888

Please review and let me know what you think! If you enjoyed this, the follow-up piece is entitled 'Second Glances'. Thank you so much for reading!


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